


Phenethylamines I Have Known and Loved

by squidnapped



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alcohol, Altered States, Drugs, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, M/M, No Dialogue, Oral Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidnapped/pseuds/squidnapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael was a professional alcoholic so he had the tolerance, but four whiskies combined with Franklin’s weed and whatever weird new club shit Lamar had given him earlier had unconsciousness washing over him rhythmically like waves on a shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Michael was a professional alcoholic so he had the tolerance, but four whiskies combined with Franklin’s weed and whatever weird new club shit Lamar had given him earlier had unconsciousness washing over him rhythmically like waves on a shore. The tide rolled in—Michael’s head rolled back onto the headrest of the skanky leather booth and he dreamed he was a minor god pulsating in outer space to the rhythm of the bass. The tide rolled out—Michael’s head rolled back up and his eyes floated over the strip club. In the center of the dance floor he saw Franklin, the birthday boy, blissed out of his mind dancing in the middle of a group of strippers. The group was all laughing in various states of undress, and he could see them all touching each other unnecessarily, having a genuinely good time. He could feel a grin so wide it was testing the limits of his face. Happy birthday Frank, I love you kid, he yelled, or tried to yell, but his tongue felt so thick it got stuck in his cheek. 

He became aware of a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like he was being watched. He tried to focus on the corner of the room, where suddenly he saw Trevor sitting, a grubby shadow, yellow eyes gleaming as he stared Michael down. Trevor was one terrifying son-of-a-bitch, but he had thrown this party together for Franklin, and deserved praise. Michael lifted his hand to toast him, but realized he didn’t have a drink in his hand. The tide rolled in.

He was wading through a body of water that came up to his torso. Little pieces of seaweed surrounded him, and as he pushed through the pulpy water they slithered around his waist and between his legs. Ahead, he saw the dull yellow eyes of a crocodile lazily swimming toward him. He looked around but there was no muddy bank to climb onto, and the trees surrounding him were limbless and tall. He felt things moving in the water around him, but for some reason as the crocodile neared him he was becoming less and less afraid. He felt the water surge around him and he was lifted upward—

The tide rolled out, and Michael forced his head back up, blinking dry eyes. The music was still pounding, but there were less people on the dancefloor. Lamar and Franklin were arguing good-naturedly in the booth next to him with some of the strippers and some more of Franklin’s friends. Every now and then they’d pause and do a line off the table. He suddenly felt very guilty that he wasn’t participating fully in the party—he was napping in the booth like an old man. He leaned forward to get a hit, but was stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder. A glass of ice water was pushed into his hands, and he realized he was probably very dehydrated. The hand weighed on his shoulder while he downed the whole glass. Michael just managed to put the glass back down when he felt the tide rolling in again. He felt the hand guide him as he tipped backward.

—and he was sitting on his couch, reality TV blaring. Amanda was kneeling between his legs, her hands placed just above his knees, and there was a kind of heat in her face that hadn’t been there in a long time. Her slender hands ran up and down his thighs, lightly caressing his legs through his dress pants. God, it had been so long since they’d touched one another. Delicately she moved one hand to his fly—he was straining at the zipper before she even got it all the way down. She deftly maneuvered his cock free from his boxes, and as she closed her perfect lips around it she looked up at him with the yellow eyes of the crocodile—

The tide rolled out, and Michael was awake again, or so he thought—his eyelids felt like lead and opening them felt like a herculean effort. Amanda was lightly licking his cock from tip to base as the bass of the club music filtered back into his awareness. Jesus, what time was it? Amanda was starting in on his balls, licking little circles between the testicles, really working up a froth as she lightly pumped on his cock with her calloused hands. Her moustache tickled the base of his dick as she inhaled his scent.

Clearly something was wrong, and as Michael further reclaimed consciousness the dream of Amanda and the current sensations separated themselves further. Amanda was at home, not in the club, which meant some drugged-up stripper had crawled between his legs, maybe at the behest of a well-meaning Lamar. Michael gathered all his strength into his body, preparing to push Amanda-not-Amanda off. So things hadn’t been going well between them lately—they hadn’t fucked in two months—he still hadn’t cheated on her since their reconciliation and he wasn’t about to with this hairy stripper. Amazing as she felt. He put a hand on her muscled shoulder to push her off, felt the oiliness of her t-shirt under his fingers.

When Michael opened his eyes, however, he didn’t see a stripper. It was Trevor looking up at him with those yellow eyes. Michael’s mouth fell open but Trevor barely reacted. He pulled his tongue off Michael’s balls, a thin line of spit still connecting his tongue to Michael’s pubic hair. Then, taking Michael’s cock by the head delicately with thumb and forefinger, Trevor slowly licked up it with the flat of his tongue, never once sparing Michael from his crocodile gaze. When he reached the top he licked around it once, then sunk his mouth over Michael’s cock. 

Michael was struck dumb, by the pure sensation, by the fact that it was _Trevor fucking Phillips_ giving him the blowjob of his life, by the fact that these things together were turning him on in a way he honestly never imagined outside of the occasional fevered dream. It may have been the drugs but it felt like an eternity while Michael stared at him, unable to speak, as Trevor slowly sucked and licked and drooled on Michael’s cock. Michael’s dick wasn’t that long but it had girth, and Trevor’s big mouth fit over it perfectly, his cheeks hollowing rhythmically as he worked.

Michael cast his eyes around the club looking for help. Franklin was gone, and Lamar was passed out cold on the booth across from him, being spooned by one of the sleeping strippers. Not a soul was around or awake to witness this wet nightmare, to pull this serial killer off his cock, to pour water on him or shock him with 200 volts to get him to react and push Trevor off of him instead of curling his fingers slowly into Trevor’s grubby t-shirt, reaching his other hand down to touch the soft, oily hair on his temple. 

At the touch, Trevor moaned and increased his pace, his head bobbing up and down on Michael’s cock. Trevor put his own tattooed hand over Michael’s and used it to push his head down further on the Michael’s cock. Michael obeyed, holding Trevor’s head down gently, and started slowly rolling his hips, pushing his cock further into Trevor’s throat. Trevor’s eyes flicked up to him just once, and then his hand was stroking Michael’s balls, sliding over their spit-covered surface. Michael felt his hand press harder on Trevor’s head, felt his hips buck sharper until he was fucking Trevor’s mouth. Trevor moaned deep in his throat and held his jaws farther apart so that Michael’s thrusts wouldn’t scrape on his teeth. He closed his lips and sucked harder, his lip stubble rubbing around the base of Michael’s cock and Michael was coming with a strangled gasp, fucking his orgasm into Trevor’s throat. Trevor braced his hands on Michael’s thighs and kept his lips closed over Michael’s dick until the last strips of cum had coated his throat, then let the dick fall from his lips with an obscene pop. 

Michael was shattered. He didn’t know if it was the drugs or the fact that he’d just had his best orgasm in maybe a decade but his body felt like it was starting to float again. He could almost feel the seaweed tendrils closing around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him still while the tide rose around him, threatening to drown. Trevor gently removed Michael’s hand from where it was resting, half-clutching on his head and got to his feet. At full height, standing so close, Trevor’s dick seemed to take up Michael’s full field of vision. It was big, achingly hard, and it seemed to bob lightly against Trevor’s hairy thighs as it pulsated. The club lights playing over it turned it mesmerizing shades of purple and red. 

He couldn’t look away from the giant cock, but he had that neck prickly feeling again and he could feel Trevor’s eyes boring into him. _This is it_ , he thought with a feeling of fifteen percent lust and eighty-five percent dread, _this is when I, drugged and date-raped Michael Townley, get face-fucked by Trevor Phillips_. He had never had a dick in his mouth before, and he had hardly just been kind to Trevor’s mouth himself. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even close his own stupid gaping mouth—he could only watch the club’s neon lights play off Trevor’s cock and wait for the inevitable. He could feel unconsciousness rushing back toward him, and he was starting to wish it would hurry the fuck up. 

But then Trevor turned and walked away. Michael heard the lock of the club’s back room click into place before his head tipped back and the tide rolled in for the last time that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick epilogue.

The next time Michael woke up, he couldn’t tell how much time had passed between his last conscious episode—it could have been five hours, it could have been five minutes. He checked his digital watch, and the glowing numbers illuminated his face with a nauseous green. Five thirty-seven AM. 

He realized with a sick jolt that his flaccid, spit-dried dick was still hanging out the front of his pants. He cast around the room, but nothing seemed to have changed since, well, since what had happened. He tucked himself back in and stood up. Lamar was still in the booth, the little spoon of a snoring stripper he vaguely remembered being named Tamesha. Other sleeping forms were arranged in various shadows and corners, the club neon lights still playing over them. But no Trevor. His door was ominously closed.

 _Hopefully he crawled back in there with whichever employee was drunk or unlucky enough to hook up with him_ , Michael thought. The image of Trevor between his legs suddenly resurfaced, and he physically waved his hands to try to dispel it. _Jesus_. The thought of a stripper back there was better than, what? That Trevor had gone back there to angrily jerk off instead of taking advantage of his immobilized old running buddy? His old buddy old pal, who he had just sucked off with a gusto unseen outside of anyone Michael had fucked before, save when wealthily compensated?

He realized he was standing in front of Trevor’s door. He put his hand out to test the knob, his hand wavering over it while he tried to just think. 

Two sides were warring within him. On one side, he thought, this is it. Everything is changed. My best friend just gave me the ( _un-asked-for_ , he thought bitterly _and_ guiltily) blowjob of my fucking life and from the way he applied himself, it was a long time coming.

On the other side, though, Michael thought—it was just Trevor. Trevor the wild and crazy and completely unpredictable. He was a complete hedonist, he did what he wanted, when he wanted. He got horny, wanted some dick, and Michael was around. Hell, maybe he didn’t even know it was Michael—it was pretty dark in there. This was a one time thing, middle of the night, crazy drugs involved. No harm, no foul. 

He couldn’t think anymore—his hangover was starting to try and eat its way out of his skull. Whatever the fuck this was, it could wait. Right? 

He withdrew his hand from the knob and walked back over to the booth. Oh right, shit, the party, he thought. Trevor had bankrolled it, and Michael had sworn up and down several times during the night that he was gonna go halvesies. “Frank is my kid too, T,” he suddenly remembered yelling in Trevor’s ear, his arm draped around his shoulder. “And I’m gonna pay my fuckin’ half.”

For some reason, he felt like it couldn’t wait until whenever they saw each other again. He dug a few hundreds out of his wallet and placed them on the booth where he’d been sitting. Trevor would know what they were for. 

With one last guilty look around the remains of the party, Michael beat a hasty retreat. 

As the front door of the club clicked shut, and Michael shambled into the cool Los Santos morning, he almost thought he could hear a whispered reproach of “Damn, that’s cold.” _My conscience is starting to sound like Lamar now? Jesus, what's next?_ Michael thought quizzically, and proceeded to hunt for his car in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this when I realized that what I had written didn't actually... have an ending. Now there may be more story in the works. Wheels are turning, man, I don't know. Someone save me from gross old white man hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this fantastic art: http://inkdrinker.tumblr.com/post/82073717054/the-shortest-distance-between-two-points


End file.
